Late Nights and Mornings After
by karala13
Summary: Lack of sleep and a bit too much to drink causes Eames to lead Arthur to believe he isn't interested. That couldn't be further from the truth.


The hotel bar was dark and lonely. Apparently people had better things to do at 4 in the morning than see how many shot glasses full of whatever it was Eames had kept demanding more of (it seemed so long ago that he had ordered that first glass) they could locate the bottom of.

Then through the silence, the shuffling of feet could be heard. Eames looked around halfheartedly. He could make out who it was through the dim lighting, and through his drunkenness, but only just.

"What brings you here at this ungodly hour?" he questioned. "Bad dream?" He smirked.

"Funny," Arthur responded. "That's very funny. But yeah, you could call it that. That so-called extractor of ours really fucked it all up."

"_Language_, darling," Eames said, feigning disgust as he downed the last drops of the liquor in his glass.

"What are you drinking?" Arthur asked, ignoring him.

"Wish I knew," Eames said. "But here," he handed Arthur the half empty bottle. "Have at it." Arthur took the bottle and lifted it to his lips, a smirk on his face which reached his eyes. He took a long swig from the bottle, his eyes locked with Eames' the entire time. At last he set it down.

"My, my," Eames said. "Must've been one hell of a disaster, that job. Probably because I wasn't there." Arthur's eyes turned serious.

"I _wish_ you'd been there," he said slowly.

"Well," said Eames, at a rare loss for words. "I myself have been perfectly content perched on this stool for six hours drinking my weight in alcohol while you and your friends fumbled about in some poor woman's mind-"

"Eames…" Arthur said. Eames looked at him as Arthur moved his hand to brush against Eames' hand which clutched his empty shot glass. Eames looked down curiously at their barely touching hands.

"Arthur," he said sighing. "Arthur Arthur Arthur. It seems you've gotten the, uh, wrong impression from my actions towards you." Arthur did not pull his hand away. Eames went on. "Really, you are stunning, dear. But frankly, you're not my type."

"You have a type?" Arthur inquired. "Well. I am intrigued." He took another gulp from the bottle, then set it down firmly. "Do tell."

"Perhaps not," Eames said, pulling the bottle out of Arthur's hand. "And perhaps you've had quite enough to drink."

"Like you haven't?" Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"Really, I think it's time for bed," Eames said, sliding off the stool at last. "Nighty night, Arthur dear." At once, he was gone, and Arthur was left alone in the darkness and the silence.

* * *

Eames awoke with a start. He felt fine, not at all like he had poured an unhealthy amount of tequila, he now remembered it was, down his throat just hours ago. The feeling of regret that sat like a lump in the pit of his stomach was not related to the alcohol. Not directly, anyway. But the way he had treated the man sitting next to him…that was the cause. He tried to push this feeling aside as he tumbled out of bed to shove the few belongings he had bothered to unpack back into his suitcase.

As he was trying to shove a crumpled suit jacket into an already stuffed corner of the suitcase, a knock on the door sounded. He groaned, tossed the jacket aside, and made his way slowly towards the door. Opening it, he saw Arthur standing on the other side.

"Arthur," he said, attempting to drain the enthusiasm from his voice. "What a surprise. Do come in." Arthur stepped inside the hotel room while Eames shut the door behind him.

"About last night," Arthur said, getting right down to business. Eames blinked in response. "…at the bar."

"The bar," said Eames quickly deciding that he would simply feign forgetfulness of the previous night's events.

"Yeah. Look, I'm sorry about…what happened."

"What happened?" Eames asked innocently.

"You know, our little conversation. What I did. What you told me."

"Right," Eames said, stroking his temples. "Listen, Arthur, darling, dear, hate to break it to you but I had a bit too much to drink last night, as you'll recall, since you claim to have been there." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm afraid I don't remember any such conversation."

"Well," Arthur said, pressing his lips together in a half-smile. "Guess I'll just take my apology somewhere else then."

"Yeah, you do that," Eames said, with as much disinterest in his voice as he could muster. "I've got-" he looked around at the nearly spotless room, "-packing to do, anyway."

"Sure," Arthur said, though he remained glued to the spot. The spot marvelously close to where Eames was kneeling. Why, _why_ did you have to stand so damn close? Had he no concept of personal space? Eames' desire to ask Arthur this was overcome suddenly by the desire to give himself away. He sighed, wondering if he was going to regret this.

"You were right." He blurted out the words before he could stop himself.

"What about?" Arthur replied. Eames sighed again.

"As it turns out, I don't have a type."

"Ah."

"But if I did…" he stood up on the spot, this time the one invading Arthur's personal space. "…have a type…" he looked Arthur square in his anxious yet patient yet spectacular eyes. "…it would be you."


End file.
